


Figurehead

by hiddenlove



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Cheating, College, Doctors & Teachers, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Ryden, Street Preforming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-06 21:04:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11608938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenlove/pseuds/hiddenlove
Summary: Clammy fingers sliding on bendy guitar strings, darkened expressions and ten dollar bills in instrument cases.- - -Ryan had his entire life planned out; but what he didn't expect was for it to become so fucking boring.





	Figurehead

**Author's Note:**

> in which i post another fucking draft.  
> bear with me on this. its been on my mind for a while.

Meetings suck. 

Ryan’s staring, eyes unfocused as lights from the half-opened window dance around on the whiteboard before him. He’s sitting across from Debby, who’s already sort of a pain in his ass to begin with, but she’s making these cracking noises with her mouth whilst chewing her gum and Ryan feels a little obligated to punch her in her shitty jaw.

 _We don’t punch women._ Ryan has to remind himself, blinking sluggishly as the lecture continues before him. He can only rip his eyes away from Debby for a few seconds, and she smirks knowingly. For what reason, Ryan doesn’t know. He sighs.

“Am I boring you, Dr. Ross?” The spokesman does his job and speaks up, eyeing Ryan a little too hardly. Ryan only shakes his head, too exhausted to look up and meet the spokesman's eyes. His eyes are pretty captivating for a know-it-all, but that’s just Ryan’s opinion.

The day has been going fairly slowly, he thinks. Ryan didn’t spend eight fucking years in college earning a doctorate in education for a job this slow, but education is a pretty slow topic. If only he’d realize that before he turned twenty-five, graduated a year early on the top of his class and was slapped in the face with the cold reality of forever having to repay his own goddamned debts. 

There’s pretty much a debt for everything, a car loan, owing somebody money, having to take a raincheck on a date. But Ryan’s never had to do that, his family- well, MOST of his family was well-off and helped Ryan through everything. The only real debt he’d put himself through owing was deciding to be alone for the rest of his life by wasting his youth on forums and equations rather than laughter and partying. If he had the choice now, Ryan would surely choose the latter.

It’s a shitty debt for a shitty person, he thinks slowly, watching as more pale yellow light flickers and dances across the stale Times New Roman words printed in front of him. He’s lazily taking notes, writing down keywords and phrases like _after school lunch line_ and _golf_ and whatever other bullshit the staff can come up with to complain about. This is a college, he wants to say, stand up on his seat and cause some damned distress. This is a college, why aren’t we talking about credit recovery or helping the fucking students in the first place. That’s some of their jobs, you know! They should be the ones making sure Sheila from Biology isn’t being emotionally manipulated by her ex-boyfriend Richard and therefore lacking the basic motivation to finish her homework, rather than trying to figure out how to cut golf practice short to make more time to bicker about their husbands after class.

The topic on the board is suddenly changed, and although Ryan was bored with the original and pretty ridiculous _first_ concept, this one isn’t much better. Again, Ryan is scribbling down little notes and words that he’ll probably just disregard later, but it’s good to appear like he’s legitimately doing his job rather than fucking around and staring off into space. He’s a little surprised that none of the staff members have asked him a question, him being one of the most important educational managers/teachers and whatnot. Ryan sighs, dropping the pen on his desk. This meeting is awful.

Ryan’s so fed up, tired, and mad that when the alarm buzzes for the meeting to be over, he only sits for a few minutes longer than intended, swallowing his pride as the stark white of the meeting room walls begin to suffocate him.

Another day, another paycheck.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

He’s a doctor, but not really either. Nobody would concern themselves with using the proper titles, no Dr. Ross or anything. Just the plain old Mr. Ross, Ryan, or even Rossie if a student is feeling a bit apprehensive. He teaches a pretty boring class, so the fact that his students are at least willing to put their best foot forward and make an effort to improve the stale air of the classroom is refreshing.

He isn’t usually hands-on with a lot of activities he does in class. All of the kids have ipads and laptops and whatever else their parents bought them laid out on their desks, some of them staring off into the distance but, luckily, most of them seem to be typing quickly to catch up with Ryan’s powerpoint. As he clicks through the stale orange slides, the sound of the clacking of fingers on laptop keys grows annoyingly louder.

“The sociology of education is the study of how public institutions and individual experiences affect education and its outcomes.” He reads, talking despite just wanting to curl up on his desk and fall asleep. Morning classes should be scientifically proven to be the fucking worst classes ever, he can’t wait until lunch. Ryan only has two afternoon classes to teach on Monday, it’s almost like a Godsend. Ryan waits for a few seconds, eyes probing the room for questions.

A student, an asian girl wearing black lipstick, raises her hand. Ryan arches an eyebrow, but calls on her. 

“I was just wondering…” She starts, gnawing on her lip. She gets black lipstick on her pearly white teeth and Ryan holds back a wince, nodding for her to continue. “So, this is sort of just the study of public education?” 

Ryan nods, even putting enough effort in himself to let the corner of his mouth lift up tenderly. He presses a button on his tiny controller, and the next slide pops up on the screen. “It’s mostly concerned with the public schooling systems of modern industrial societies,” He begins to answer, looking towards the female student. “Including the expansion of higher, further, adult, and continuing education.”

“So, as it’s being read, we’re learning about the study of public grounds covering _mostly_ public education. Seem alright? Does anybody else have a question, comment, or concern?” Ryan asks, and scans the room for any hands. He shrugs his shoulders, and then right as he’s going to close down his computer and begin a long rant about the topic they’ll be covering today, a hand shoots up.

“Uh… yes, Geoff-?” Ryan goes to answer the student, but then two more hands shoot up. And then three, and after a solid fifteen seconds, more than half of the class has their hands raised high, including the asian girl wearing the black lipstick. Ryan just sighs, defeated. Another day, another paycheck.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“Isn’t candy supposedly bad for your teeth?” Ryan’s friend Jon says, hypocritically so, as he shoves noodles and greasy cooked green beans and whatever other disgusting mess lies within the Chinese takeout container into his mouth. “Itth kinda grosthf-” He says, mouth full. Ryan doesn’t hide his disgust this time, only rolls his eyes and takes another small bite into his chocolate bar.

“You’re disgusting. I want you to leave the school forever now, because what you’re doing is really heinous. Jon, I think I might throw up because of how loudly and mushily you’re chewing.”

Jon just laughs after swallowing, braying like a goddamned horse so loudly that Ryan cringes pretty badly. He haphazardly hands his friend a napkin, almost tempted to shove the damned thing in his mouth to get him to stop laughing so loud and chewing so grossly. Jon mumbles a thank you, still smiling wide. The joke wasn’t even that funny, Ryan just so happens to be a bit of a dick at all times. “You’re still gross. I think you spit fortune cookie on a neighbouring teacher’s shirt or something. Aren’t you supposed to, like, open those cookies and read the paper inside?”

Jon pales, and Ryan smirks. “Oh, fuck. I totally just ate the thing whole.” He mutters, rubbing his lips.

“Yuck.” Ryan’s face scrunches up, he wonders why and how he can even put up with other people, especially Jon, at this point. Sighing, Ryan stands up and politely walks over to the trashcan, tossing the chocolate bar wrapper in the bin. He grabs a couple more napkins and walks back over to the table, tossing them lazily to Jon. “Here, because you’re mentally seven years old.”

“You know-” Jon starts, but Ryan gives him a pretty dangerous look, so he continues to chew. “For a doctor, you seem to be putting up with me like a caretaker. I miss when you just yelled at me when I spilled juice on your graded reports, those were good days.” He sighs, dreamily, batting his eyelashes. 

“That was yesterday, Jon.” Ryan shakes his head in disapproval.

Jon makes a _sh_ noise, continuing his thought. “Yesterday schmesterday, what matters now is that you’re being too much of a friend to me to actually be Ryan Ross. Hello, is he in there? Where are the education facts? Helllloooo?” Jon waves his hands around Ryan’s face dramatically, before he shoves another forkful of noodles into his open mouth. Disgusting. At least his teeth are white, Ryan thinks with a grimace. 

“Were you raised in a barn, or did you get your horse laugh from the internet?” Ryan asks, although there’s no coldness there to make it seem like an actual insult. Jon snorts.

“There’s the Ryan I know and love! Tell me, how was it being nice for two entire minutes? You got me napkins and everything.” Jon smiles, wide. His smile is actually quite infectious, if Ryan were friendly enough to admit that to his face and not think it with a slight smirk. Jon obviously knows that, though. He’s too weirdly nice to everybody he meets (without trying) that it sort of rubs off on Ryan unintentionally. Not that he likes it or anything, because he totally doesn’t, but it exists. Just a tiny bit. Jon has tried to strangle him with being nice too many times for him to count.

“I think that you’d look better with your tongue cut out,” Ryan says, folding his hands over the table.

“Ouch.” Jon pretends to look hurt, tossing his empty chinese takeout container at the trash can. It misses. He scowls at it for a few seconds before turning back to Ryan. “I think that blue isn’t your color, either, but that’s just my opinion.” He’s smiling again. Ryan can only hold a glare at Jon Walker for so long, he simply ducks his head and fights off a grin. Jon pokes his side, standing up. 

“Fuck off.” Ryan eventually mumbles, flexing his fingers. The satisfaction of his knuckles popping makes him sigh, and he rubs over the pads of his fingers for a couple of seconds before picking in-between his teeth with his tongue. “What, you think I should burn my blue jeans or something?”

Jon rolls his eyes, scratching his beard. “All you wear is work clothes. If you, Ryan Ross, own anything other than suits and clothing that looks like you magically imported it from _The Office,_ I will actually shit myself in excitement.”

Ryan doesn't have a reply. He only gingerly lifts his middle finger up, flipping Jon off. It makes the other man snicker, toying with a toothpick in his nimble hands.

“Welp, I’ve got a full afternoon! Should head to my classes. I’m guessing you don’t.”

“Maybe I’ve got classes for all the five hours we have to stick here, Walker. Don’t judge someone with your head in the sand.” Ryan snaps, again without any mean intent behind the whole charade.

Jon’s face twists up, kinda in thought, before he speaks again. “...Did Mr. Wentz teach you that?”

Ryan sighs in frustration. “Shut up.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The walk from campus to his apartment isn’t as long as he thought it would be, but only because on Mondays there isn’t a lot of traffic after school. He guesses it’s because there’s rarely any party-throwing on Mondays, or attempted suicides. Mondays are slowly killing everyone at once anyways, why plan ahead?

Ryan doesn’t drive. Not that he doesn’t have a driver's license, which he does, but it’s just because he doesn’t have a car. And he doesn’t have a car, _not_ because he can’t afford one, or doesn’t want to waste any of his pocket money, but because he just hasn’t had the time to go look at fucking cars! Ryan’s too busy, all the time.

Someone would think that becoming a doctor in education would have more benefits besides getting paid $21.24 an hour. Not as if that’s bad pay, because it’s super fucking good for just one person to live off of. But other than the getting-paid-higher-than-minimum-wage benefit, Ryan’s not sure there’s much else.

On his walk, Ryan briefly wonders about the kinds of benefits he could've gotten elsewhere. Eight years in college for a different position as a doctor; a head surgeon or something, would have some of the best benefits you can get. He doesn't trust himself with a butter knife however, let alone a person's brain. President of the United States would be a close second, but the prospect of (at least) multiple thousands of people hating him to his very core wouldn't be that appealing. Ryan thinks that there are a million and one different types of jobs that would offer more than this kind of bullshit teaching position, but where else is Ryan going to go?

There’s very few things that go wrong in his life, that’s true. Work is boring as all hell, and he’s semi-afraid of being shamed by one of his bosses in public. He can count the amount of friends- acquaintances- whatever they are on one of his hands, and still have a middle finger left to flip off the universe. This isn’t what he thought his life would pan out to be, and Ryan’s deep regret for choosing a profession as needy as this is crawling back to bite him in the ass harder every day.

One of the things he does enjoy is the respect. Ryan gets _a lot of respect._ That’s good, he worked his ass off to get to this point and it’s _good._ His students usually aren’t childish assholes about his lesson plans, his boss can be considerate and friendly when the time arises, and he’s pretty sure that Jon actually cares about him just a tiny bit. As an acquaintance, he means. Ryan doesn't have friends.

Yet… Ryan thinks that there’s something missing. Something he never got to really explore, or see much into, or even get the time to think about. Some part of Ryan desperately wants something and, honestly, he has a hard time figuring out what the fuck it is.

He’s tried therapy, anti-depressants and even contacted a goddamned priest to ask if he’s being possessed or something. (It turns out that he actually WAS being possessed, and even after paying the man three hundred dollars in cash and him waving a bible in his face for seven minutes, Ryan still wasn’t happy.) Nothing worked out well for him, the exorcism sucked and was a waste of money, his medication only made him fall further into a spiraling hole of depression and soap operas, and Ryan’s therapist was probably too busy trying to get a firm glimpse at his ass to even consider helping him out. 

So, even with the respect and well-paying job and two to four nice people in his life, Ryan’s still vehemently depressed. That’s not the problem, though. The problem is that Ryan doesn’t know _why._

“You get enough sleep,” Ryan says to his empty apartment, hanging his dress coat on the rack. It shakes, threatening to fall over onto the tiling of the nearby kitchen flooring, but it doesn’t. Ryan sighs heavily. “You eat three times a day,” He says again, mumbling. “You have enough money to buy coffee and shit...” He shoves his bag up against a wall and starts to untie his work shoes, tiredly messing with the knots until he can’t take it anymore and simply slips them off of his sore feet. “You’ve worked too fuckin’ hard to get to where you are today…” Ryan says, with a bit of exasperation in himself. He knows that he doesn’t deserve to be upset, but self-pity isn’t going to get him anywhere either. Ryan’s just frustrated.

“So then.” Ryan says again, clearing his throat. He’s shirtless, staring at his face in the mirror with pain etched on all over. “Why are you so fucking sad?”

There is no reply from his empty apartment. Ryan exhales loudly, and taps the dirty mirror with dirtier feeling hands. He should probably shave.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“Maybe it’s because you’re lonely.” Jon says, the next morning at lunch. He’s replaced his chinese takeout container with some _real_ food, which just so happens to be leftover spaghetti that his wife had cooked yesterday and a childish pouch of capri sun. “Lonely people get sad a lot. When’s the last time you’ve gotten laid?”

Ryan makes a disgusted face, elbowing his friend in the side. “Fuck off. I’m not lonely…” He whispers, even though he can admit it’s sort of true. Maybe not the flat out reason he wants to jump off of a cliff sometimes and hug a kitten within the same hour timeframe, but it could be a small part of his everlasting depression. He sighs glumly, picking at his salad with an almost-clean fork. “I hate that you’re right sometimes.” Ryan mumbles into his salad, shoving a forkful of lettuce and carrot into his mouth. “And I also hate your goody-two-shoes attitude. You try too hard sometimes.” He scowls into his food, face slumped lazily into the palm of his hand. It’s not true, not in the slightest, and he secretly hopes that he didn’t just offend Jon.

“You know, maybe you’re trying too hard to be sad.” Jon comments after a short pause, daring to meet Ryan’s sunken eyes. He chews his lip anxiously, sticking a meatball in his mouth. “Or it’s because you’re a Leo. Leos tend to have depression well into their thirties.”

Ryan clenches his jaw, giving Jon an apprehensive look. “Wow, thanks. Glad to know that I’ll endlessly be unhappy with my better-than-average life.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that-” Jon starts, feeling defensive. He holds his hands up in surrender, having already finished his spaghetti. Ryan looks down at his salad and realizes that he he’s barely touched his. “...I just wanna help, but you never wanna talk about anything unless it has to do with the Beatles or San Diego or something completely irrelevant, is all.”

Ryan snorts, and Jon perks up a little bit at the sound of his friend cheering up ever so slightly. Then again, Ryan punching a wall is basically him claiming to be happier than he’s ever been, so maybe Jon’s just too good at reading his friend’s emotions. “I’ll shove my copy of _Hey Jude_ so far up your fucking ass, you’ll be wondering who put the scratches on the DVD front.

Jon smiles, because he’s glad Ryan isn’t too pissy today. Yeah, he’s used to his friend having a shitty attitude all the time, but it’s not like he enjoys it. He sort of just teases Ryan and puts up with it. Oh, man. You have no fucking idea how many times that Jon’s tried to get Ryan high. He’s a firm believer that marijuana is going to end all famine and poverty, and if it can end World War III before it even starts, it has to end the shit going on in Ryan’s head. All of the gloominess, the self-deprecation. It melts away when you’re high. “You should totally get hi-”

“What do you think it would take for Pete to fire me?” Ryan interrupts, knowing exactly what Jon was about to bring up. His eyes are squinting at the wall. They’re unfocused, sort of foggy. He’s already got the high-look down! This is gonna be easy, Jon knows it, he just needs to think of a better time to try and introduce the devils lettuce into this skinny dudes life.

“Bend a hot babe over a desk in his office?” Jon offers, encouragingly. He couldn’t recount the amount of times Jon’s done something stupid and Pete’s just laughed it off, being the awesome guy he is. Ryan shakes his head, still focused on the wall.

“I think I might have a heart attack before I have sex with someone in this building.”

 _You might have a heart attack before you have sex with someone at all._ Jon doesn’t say, only thinks about how dazed and weirdly floaty Ryan’s being, so he takes his plate and licks it right in front of his friends face.

“Okay, Jonathan, that’s _fucking goss_ , get that away from me.” Ryan says, suddenly squeamish. 

Jon giggles. “Whatever you say, daydreamer.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

School today went slower than yesterday. It's Tuesday, which Ryan thought would be less shitty than the Monday yesterday, but he was apparently very wrong. On Monday, you still have that electric buzz from the weekend. Especially as a student, where you're allowed to go party and drink with minimal consequences besides a headache on the following day. But on Tuesday, it's all gone, and the heavy weight of the rest of the week is beginning to settle on you. 

For that reason, Ryan only gives homework on Thursdays. His students appreciate that because although it's still homework and homework will always endlessly _suck dick_ , they at least know what's coming every week and how to prepare for it. Also, he only likes to grade papers on Fridays, where he legitimately has free time to do school work, so sometimes students drop things off a little later than Thursday. Ryan never minds too much.

The concept of homework in college is mysterious, fluid and kind of ridiculous. Jon, his friend, teaches psychology. Sometimes, when they both have free periods, Jon will show up randomly and plan out lessons with Ryan. Which, he’s doing right now, typing away on his school-given ipad. Google Slides is open on the desk, the crazy hippie font he was using only made the situation more ridiculous.

“Language doesn’t have anything to do with psychology, Jon. Why are you trying to teach kids Spanish?” Ryan comments. Jon rolls his eyes and continues typing away on Google Slides, making it clear that he could care less what somebody with a doctoral degree in education thought about his lesson plans. Ryan is older than Jon by a year, doesn't that mean he's supposed to be wiser? All-knowing?

“It’s not about Spanish. Psychology is complex… language is almost as complex. People should understand what language has to _do_ with the subject, rather than try to figure out how to, for example, flirt in the language.” He looks at Ryan for a second, who appears to be moderately interested, before continuing his train of thought. “...So, it’s less about who means what and more about what somebody’s tone of voice can do to probe a conversation…?”

“When did you become a detective?” Is all Ryan asks, chin rested carelessly on in the palms of his hands. They’re sweaty and gross, but Ryan is tired and wants to go home and sleep for another thirteen hours, so bite him. 

Jon snorts, creating a new slide and beginning to type some information. “I can’t solve a crime. However, I could probably get into the mind of a criminal. Find out so many personal secrets… it wouldn’t be that hard, depending on the type of person. After a year in college with this shit, all of it becomes a breeze.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow, rubbing his chin. It’s prickly, the skin, so it’s obvious that he should probably shave again, but he's been really lazy as of late. Ryan’s got a mad case of babyface syndrome, so he’s not like Jon, who can easily sport a beard or some fuzz. “That’s disconcerting.”

“Yep!” Jon says, smiling toothily. He pokes at Ryan’s elbow, typing with his other hand swiftly. “Say, what are you doing with the kids right now?”

Ryan thinks for a second. It seems that he’d genuinely forgot, which is a bit sad, but it only takes him a couple long seconds to remember. He pulls up his own ipad, scrolling through documents and ungraded essays from last week. Beginning of the year essays were a must, as well as mid-year and end of the year ones. School started in early September, and it was September 12th right now. The papers would all be turned in by the end of the month, and Ryan was only slightly regretting pushing the paper agenda on his students, because there were over thirty in his class. At least Ryan likes reading. 

“Look. We just finished a big essay unit… well, most of us did. The ones that wanted to pass this class did. Now what we’re going to do is kinda based on public education, right? It’ll be only a week or so. Then, we might have a short quiz… homework on Thursdays, as always.” Ryan explains, showing his friend the opened ipad.

“It’s kinda weird.” Jon says, scratching his nose. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of the electronic device quite yet, but his pupils are unfocused. He’s not really paying attention to what's on the screen, more or less just what Ryan’s saying. “You’re doing an entire lesson on public education, but you’ve never gone to a public school.”

Ryan thinks about this for a minute, and shrugs. “You don’t speak Spanish, and yet here we are.”

“Think again, amigo.” Jon says, smirking. “¿Quieres salir conmigo? 

Ryan’s face contorts into something kind of unreadable. “Were you flirting with me just now?”

“¿En tu casa o en la mia?” Jon says, still smiling wide. He’s got a freaky expression plastered on his scruffy face, and Ryan only rolls his eyes. 

“Ha ha ha. My name’s Jon Walker and I think that I can fool Ryan Ross into believing that I’m fluent in Spanish, when in reality all I’m doing is cheaply flirting with him in a creepy way.”

Jon isn’t phased by it, only continues to poke Ryan’s elbow and speak in a shitty hispanic accent. 

“Me gustas mucho. ¿Te perdiste? El cielo está muy lejos de aqui.” Jon goes on, wiggling his eyebrows. By this point Ryan can’t help but laugh just a _tiny_ bit, shaking his head as Jon continues to try and flirt horrendously.

“Uncle! I give in.” Ryan says, wiping his chin. Jon looks satisfied, and doesn’t say anything else in reply to the whole Spanish fiasco before continuing to type away on his ipad.

“...You know what would make this better? Getting h-” Jon starts, but as predicted, Ryan interrupts him again.

“Focus on your lesson plans, Romeo.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

If the classwork on Tuesday was bad, the walk home on Tuesday was bound to be worse. That fact was proven true after he was almost mugged twice within ten minutes of leaving the building, clutching his school bag in one hand and a goddamned _pocket knife_ in the other. This is Chicago, Ryan is more than willing to shank somebody if they start the fight. He doesn’t like to engage in physical combat very often, but has fought to save his own life before and can do it again, just you try him.

He crosses a busy street, waving to people he barely knows and smiling at old people as they pass by in their fancy cars. He should really buy one of those… and get his driver's license, too. That should be a thing that happens before he hits thirty, is it embarrassing to have just not bothered with your own type of vehicular transportation after the age of twenty-four? Jon has promised him, within the year that he started interning at his job (before finishing college), that he would make a fake driver's license for Ryan. It never happened though, and although Ryan probably wouldn't admit it, that kind of upset him.

His apartment isn’t too far away from here, only about five blocks or so. He sighs, sliding the pocket knife back into his work pants’ pocket. Nobody should jump him now, he’s never been brutally attacked on this side of the street. He has fond memories of helping grandmothers cross the road, only to slap himself for doing so because most of them denied his help anyways. Ryan has a hard time blaming them, though. He does give off pretty stellar serial killer vibes now and then. The five o’clock shadow doesn't help.

Ryan turns his head and begins to head in the general direction of his house when he hears it- _it-_ music. Not radio music, either, this is too gentle and live to even sound remotely like it comes from a radio. Ryan is confused, but he turns in another direction and follows it anyways, determined to figure out where and who it is coming from. Chicago surprises him all the time, something like this isn't weirdly uncommon. It's strange, though.

It's only a ten minute walk away from his house, but Ryan does eventually find the source. Needles to say, he's mildly impressed.

In Chicago, one of the rarest amenities is something real, like whole foods or good people or a genuine conversation. The thing happening in front of Ryan appears to seem all-too-real, falling in the same category. It's just a man and his guitar, but it's also… something else.

The street performing art is a dangerous one. His instrument case is open on the sidewalk, and there’s a few crumpled up dollar bills littered on the inside of the case. A ten, and three ones. Ryan can tell he's been out here for a while, his fingers look tired and his expression is a bit unfocused. However, he continues to play his guitar, humming when necessary.

Ryan walks up to him and drops a fifty in the guitar case without thinking.

He doesn't wait for a reaction- the man looks up at Ryan and smiles, opening his mouth to say something. ‘Thank you’, probably, or a variation of that. Ryan runs away before he can say anything.

Why’d he just do that?

**Author's Note:**

> lemme know what u think of this one. 
> 
> tumblr - @pangst


End file.
